


Rogue

by quiversarrow



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Minor Violence, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:25:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiversarrow/pseuds/quiversarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy protects and cares for her old teammates, but flees before they can thank her (a sad idea that I needed to get off my chest)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rogue

**Author's Note:**

> Because I have no inspiration for CiL, but lots of inspiration for sad Daisy fics
> 
> If you spot any mistakes in this, please tell me!

May eased into her chair for the eighth time that morning. She both resented and felt immensely grateful for the new Director allowing her to take this well-needed break. His actions hadn’t completely quelled her unease about him, but they had convinced her that she ought to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least for now.

If he even thought about hurting her team, however…

She sat up abruptly. A few steps and she found herself in her newly-rented apartment’s tiny office, a place that she often found herself straying during her so-called vacation. The place was bland and white, unfurnished apart from a plastic chair tucked under a folding desk, but she didn’t mind. It wasn’t permanent. And she didn’t need to actually work there.

Which was still, admittedly, an odd thought.

She slumped into the plastic chair and dropped her head in her hands. Her eyes then caught, as they always did, on the one splotch of color in the office. She picked up the frame and leaned back in her seat, studying it. 

A shadow fell over her face. As in all of her photos, Andrew was smiling, his arm flung over her shoulder, casually leaning against her as if they had all the time in the world. She herself was laughing, the camera barely capturing her joy. Sometimes May wondered if she would ever feel that way again, or if Andrew and that little girl from Bahrain had fractured her beyond repair. 

At least he had died a hero, every inch of him propelling Lash to his ultimate fate: to save Daisy. With his life. May set the photo back on the desk and turned away, biting her lip. She was finished shedding tears over that man. That monster. Whatever he had been. Her skin still chafed from where he had chained her like an animal, as if chains could ever control her. 

When the knock came, she nearly fell out of her chair. Regaining her balance, she opened one of the folding desk’s drawers to grab her hidden handgun before moving silently towards the door. Outside, she could hear a faint rustling, like the shuffling of feet or a gust of wind. 

How many of them were there? How had they found her? Hadn’t Coulson and the Director assured her that she would be safe here? Her distrust for the new Director grew.

Pressing her back against the wall beside the door, she took a breath. _Steady. Raise your handgun. Move._ She darted to the door and shoved it open with her gun raised, only to find the hallway empty. Lowering her weapon with a relieved sigh, she began to close the door when she noticed something on the carpet.

Her eyebrows rose.

_Flowers?_

She picked them up and spun them in her fingers. Roses and little white buds, framed with a smattering of tiny yellow…oh. _Oh._

She opened the door wider and stepped out into the hallway. Where could she have gone? Why couldn’t she have just shown her face?

“Daisy?” May called. 

The hallway didn’t answer. As she turned to return to her apartment, however, May thought she caught a blur of black turning the corner.

—

“We deserve this, don’t we?” Jemma asked anxiously. 

“Of course.” Fitz tightened his grip on her hand and led her into the restaurant. The glow of the paper lanterns that hung over each table dappled their skin a warm yellow, beckoning them farther into the place.

“Name, sir?” the man behind the sleek black dais asked as they approached, the rhinestones on Jemma’s blue cardigan sparkling faintly. Fitz squeezed her hand again.

“Fitz,” he said. “Leopold Fitz.”

“Fitz,” the man repeated to himself, flipping through the booklet in his hands. Jemma tensed. Wasn’t he taking too long? Did he just sneak a look at Fitz?

No.

She needed to calm down. It was just another date. 

Nothing was going to happen. 

“This way.”

The man led them to a rounded booth in the back of the restaurant, tucked into a cozy alcove beside the cashier, and handed them their menus. Jemma’s hands tightened on the laminated pages as she flipped through them, trying and failing to shake the feeling that they were being watched.

“Are you alright?” Fitz asked. Concern softened his eyes, that long gaze that he saved just for her. She often wondered how she could have missed it, or whether she had been consciously blocking it out. Classic Simmons. How much time they had missed! 

Her annoyance at her past self almost stifled her unease. Almost.

“I’m fine,” she said, flashing a quick, nervous smile. Fitz could, of course, hear the tremble in her voice. The crease between his eyes told her that. 

“This is the first time in months that our break days have matched up,” he reminded her, his voice soothing, gentle. She let it wash over her. “If we can convince the Director and Dr. Radcliffe to give us this, we can handle anything this restaurant throws at us.”

She nodded.

“Plus, it’s not an alien planet. Or the bottom of the ocean. We survived all of those things.”

“It’s what we’re good at,” Jemma said, speaking more to herself than Fitz. _Breathe. Enjoy this._ “Science. And surviving.”

“Which is usually the same thing for us.”

She cracked a small smile. Already, she could feel the tense ball of nerves in her stomach unraveling, loosening with every word. That had always been one of Fitz’s many talents, calming her down. A rush of affection for the man— _her man_ —surged through her, reddening her cheeks.

“That’s it,” he said, a smile crinkling those aquamarine eyes. He turned back to the menu. “How about filet mignon? Maybe we can convince Coulson to pay for it again.”

“Didn’t he use SHIELD money for that?”

“Well, we _are_ SHIELD,” he replied, shooting her a conspiratorial grin. She couldn’t help but mirror it, the fists she had formed under the table slowly opening. She laced her fingers together just in time for their waiter to arrive with a notepad and pen. 

“I’d like a—”

“I wouldn’t move if I were you.”

“What—”

Fitz froze, his eyes widening, as a hooded man pressed the barrel of a gun to his head. Jemma leapt to her feet, her mouth poised to shout, when someone jabbed her in the shoulder and pressed her back into her seat. She landed with a heavy thud and squeaked in terror as a gruff whisper reached her ears.

“Stay still, darling. This will all be very quick.”

“Don’t touch her!” Fitz snapped, his eyes flashing. He tried to move, to reach her, but the gun against his head forced him down. “What do you want?”

“Just information,” the man holding the gun said smoothly. “This Inhuman pest. What do you know of it?”

“Do we look like Inhumans to you? My girlfriend and I are on a date!”

“Don’t play the fool, Agent Fitz. We know who you are.”

“Well then, you know we’re just as behind in this search as you are. Maybe you should leave us alone and pick on someone who’s actually in the know.”

Jemma thought she caught a glint of anger in the man’s eyes.

“Fitz…” she warned. Underneath the table, she reached for the knife she stashed in the inside pocket of her cardigan, a leftover habit from Maveth. Her gaze hardened as her fingers curled around the thin, comforting hilt. 

“If you aren’t willing to cooperate, then we may have to do this the hard—ah!”

Fitz lurched forward as a familiar pulse of thrumming energy sent the hooded man flying backwards, crashing into the cashier behind them and tumbling over an upended computer. As their fellow customers shouted and pointed, Jemma ripped her knife from her jacket and sliced a long red gash across the hands of the man that pinned her down. Suddenly free, she rushed out of the booth, grabbed Fitz, and raced for the restaurant entrance.

“Are you okay?” she panted as soon as they reached the street and settled into a slow pace behind another couple. Fitz nodded, pale and out of breath, but otherwise unharmed. She could still, however, feel his shaking hand in hers. 

“Daisy,” he eventually managed. “She—”

“I know, I saw. It’s like that time in the mall again. She’s…” Jemma fought back her tears. “She’s protecting us.” _Like she thought she couldn’t protect Lincoln. And Trip._

“Yeah,” Fitz murmured. He rubbed his thumb over hers, his eyes distant and pensive, maybe even a little sad. “But who will protect her?”

—

Bobbi sighed through her teeth, her legs propped up against the bars. The metal floor sent icy thrills through her flimsy T-shirt and into her back. She missed her uniform, her batons, the comfort of a mission orchestrated by someone other than herself, someone she could trust and follow…

“I want mushroom soup,” Hunter said suddenly. 

“I know you do,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. She certainly didn’t miss him. He was a constant vibrant presence, loud and boisterous and impulsive as always. Nevertheless, she was glad he was there. Alive. They were both alive. 

That, at least, was something.

“They haven’t checked on us in a while.”

“Still confident about our escape method?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he answered, grinning. Had she not known him as well as she did, she might have missed the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, though it disappeared as quickly as it came. “They’ll come through.”

“Maybe you didn’t pay them enough.”

“I’m a mercenary, too! I know what kind of pay we’re looking for. I’ve got this.” He glanced over his shoulder and through the bars, where a rusting staircase meandered its way up into the stronghold where they had been caught. 

“Mercenaries,” Bobbi grumbled.

“What was that?”

She shifted.

“Nothing. Just…maybe we should have laid low, like we were supposed to.”

“Like we were supposed to?” he repeated incredulously. “Since when have we ever done that?”

“Since every SHIELD mission we’ve ever done.”

“Well,” he said softly. An uncharacteristically dark expression crossed his face. “We aren’t exactly SHIELD anymore, are we?”

“I thought you missed being a mercenary.”

“No,” he replied. “I miss having friends. And, well, after Izzy…SHIELD was the next best thing. Too bad it involved, you know, getting shot at and being chained in bathrooms and…well, interrogation.”

Bobbi shuddered. She had always known that her job would require sacrifice, but she had never imagined how much. The fall of SHIELD had already been bad enough. Renouncing everything she had ever known had been heroic in the moment, but now she just felt…lost. Directionless. An arrow without a target.

“Sorry,” Hunter said, noting her wince and shuffling closer to her. His boots scraped against the metal. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s alright. It’s a part of us now. No use trying to hide from it.”

Hunter opened his mouth to reply when the ceiling shook. Bobbi pulled him against her as a piece of it—a long, rotting white board—crashed to the top of the cage and rained splinters upon them. Hissing curses under her breath, she yanked him into the corner of their prison and shielded him as best she could with her arms. 

“What the—?” Hunter managed before the fall of a second plank interrupted him. It plummeted right through the bars and shattered against the metal floor with a loud crack. Splinters and sharp wooden shrapnel flew everywhere, piercing Bobbi’s arms as she held them over her head. Beside her, Hunter curled into a ball. 

Something that sounded vaguely like screams sounded and then petered out above them. Bobbi’s heart pounded. She couldn’t imagine the small group of mediocre mercenaries Hunter had contacted creating such a ruckus unless they were on the losing side. 

Her jaw tightened. _Well then._ If they couldn’t count on their back-up plan to get them out, they would have to do it themselves. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Hunter,” she said, “we need a plan. A good one. Now.”

He was slow to respond. For one terrifying moment she thought he had been gravely injured. Then, he pointed, and she followed his finger to the top of the staircase. A shadowy figure descended on shaking feet and then raced up to their cage, his eyes as wide as if he had seen a ghost. His fingers trembled as he worked on the lock.

It was the same man who had greeted them when they arrived, cackling as he informed them that he didn’t have what they were looking for, and then thrown them into a dirty cage as if they were garbage at his feet. Now, however, there wasn’t mockery in his eyes, but fear.

“What happened?” Bobbi demanded as he flung open the door. He had nearly returned to the foot of the staircase when he answered, his voice raw and tight.

“Her,” he said. Then, he scurried back up the staircase.

Bobbi and Hunter looked at each other and then crept out of their cage. Edging up the stairs after their captor, they emerged into the gang’s stronghold.

“Oh,” Hunter said, his eyes widening. The warehouse was strewn with bodies crumpled haphazardly against the walls. Bobbi strode to one of the gang members and flipped him over with her heel. He flopped onto his back, lifeless, eyes rolled up into his head. 

“This certainly has her mark on it.” Hunter walked to Bobbi’s side and looked down at the unconscious body. “Throwing people against walls seems to be just her style.”

“Yeah,” Bobbi said. A surge of pride for her former teammate’s skill rushed through her, and then quickly faded. “But why send their leader for us? Why not rescue us herself?”

“She can’t associate with us anymore, Bob. Not when we’re ex-SHIELD.”

“Well, so is she. And besides, we can’t work for them anymore.” She shrugged helplessly. “We’re her _friends_. She should be able to trust us.”

He glanced at the warehouse entrance, where three figures were making their way towards them. One of them waved an enthusiastic hand. Their back-up had arrived, though far too late. 

“Maybe she just doesn’t trust herself.”

—

“The car! In the car!”

A cloud of dust obscured the run-down Jeep as it screeched around the alleyway corner and out of sight. Mack leapt into the driver’s seat of his own car and slammed his foot on the gas. Coulson lurched forwards in the passenger seat, barely pulling the seatbelt over his chest as the car rumbled to life and barreled after its quarry. 

“Where’s he going?” Mack demanded.

“Headquarters, probably. Don’t let him get that far; he might have back-up.”

“We can handle back-up.”

“Not if it’s Inhuman,” Coulson replied, glancing sidelong at him. “We lost our edge, remember?”

Mack gritted his teeth. The drab buildings around them blurred as he increased his pressure on the gas pedal. 

“Then we’ll have to try twice as hard to get her back.”

Through the haze of dust, Mack could soon make out the small black dot that was the runaway Jeep. He pursed his lips. Whatever was in that case must have been important, so important that its owners would flee the scene as soon as they arrived. The thing was, he and Coulson weren’t after the case, no matter what SHIELD and the Director said. 

They were after her.

The closer they got, the more erratic the Jeep’s driving became. By the time they were neck in neck it was swerving from side to side as if its driver could barely keep his hands on the wheel. Mack thought he caught sight of waving hands in the front seats.

“Arguing?” Coulson asked, curious.

“Maybe,” Mack said, though he doubted it. They were planning something. “We should get in front of them.” He eased the car forwards and was about to slide in front of the Jeep when he saw movement out of the corner of his eyes. He turned just in time for something small and pointed to shatter with a spiderwebbed crack against his window.

“Speed up, speed up!” Coulson shouted, reaching for the wheel.

“I got it!” 

“That’s—agh!”

More bullets peppered the window and bits of the front windshield as Mack involuntarily let off the gas. He quickly recovered and pressed forward, thanking goodness for bulletproof glass, but the Jeep had pulled ahead. He cursed under his breath and tried to take advantage of the SHIELD vehicle’s superior speed, but the alleyway had narrowed dramatically.

“Can’t pass,” he growled. “What now?”

“Keep at it, we can’t—!”

Coulson was cut off when the Jeep suddenly flew to the side, crashing against the side of an old brick wall and crumpling like a tin can underfoot, its wheels still spinning up clouds of dust. Mack slammed on the breaks and watched in astonishment as the Jeep continued to flatten until the men—and their cargo—were helplessly pinned.

“New plan,” Coulson said, his voice soft.

“What?” 

Mack then saw what had caught his attention. He sucked in his breath. A figure was nearing the Jeep, one gloved hand outstretched, her long black hair fluttering behind her. She turned to them, her brown eyes widening in surprise before dropping, unable to meet their gazes. Mack stumbled out of the car and strode towards her, determined to succeed where he had failed countless times before, but she was already running. 

“Daisy!”

She only ran faster. He rushed after her, panting, until they turned into a dead end. She pressed herself against the wall of a locked gate, her eyes searching him, almost pleading. He stopped at the fork and held up placating hands.

“Please,” he said, “we’re your friends. We only want to help.”

She remained where she was. _Good._ Mack, his hands still raised, took a tentative step forward. Her lips moved.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m sorry.”

Her hands moved, and suddenly Mack found himself flying backwards into the main street, skidding to a halt in the dirt. Coulson rushed to him from behind, the men’s heavy black case clutched in his metal hand.

“Gone?” 

In response, Mack punched the earth.

Coulson sighed and held out the case. Mack took it and pried it open, revealing rows upon rows of glittering blue Terragen crystals. The heavy feeling in his chest intensified. The new Director would be pleased; his mission had been a success.

But he and Coulson had failed.

Again.

—

Daisy returned to her van in utter exhaustion. She yanked open its blue door and crawled into the front seat, leaning her head against the steering wheel.

“You’re home,” she murmured, but the words fell flat. Nothing she said to herself helped anymore. Nothing about this van would ever feel like home. She’d fashioned a home out of the people around her, the people she had thought would finally be her family, and she had lost them.

_Renounced them._

She shook her head, chastising herself. 

_Same thing._

She finally lifted herself from the steering wheel and climbed into the back of the van, where she had set up a poorly fashioned replica of her old workspace. Pushing past the white curtains, she settled into the back seat and opened her computer, only to stop and stare at herself reflected in its black screen. With a shaky hand, she drew the green beanie off of her head and shed her sleek wig, revealing short, gentle black waves. 

“Skye,” she murmured. She met herself in the eye before reaching up with the back of her hand and rubbing the heavy silver eyeshadow from her face. Underneath, rings of sleeplessness curled around her eyes. 

She lifted her hands and peeled the black fishnet from her skin. The gloves fell to her dusty keyboard as she whispered, her voice almost breaking, “Quake.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. She followed its descent until she could no longer watch and instead rested her head in the crook of her folded arms. 

“Daisy Johnson.”

_Hacker._

_Agent._

_Protector._

_Rogue._

**Author's Note:**

> I have officially made myself sad
> 
> Kudos and comments are hugely appreciated as always!! Now go read something happy!!!


End file.
